


The Murder of Maranda

by fjaeril



Series: The Rise and Fall of General Chere [1]
Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: Gen, Oneshot, Pre-Canon, coarse language, references to armed combat, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 00:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14780459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fjaeril/pseuds/fjaeril
Summary: The Third Imperial Campaign starts with Doma, but the war begins with Maranda.





	The Murder of Maranda

The Third Imperial Campaign starts with Doma, but the war begins with Maranda. 

It seems laughable, that a speck-on-the-map place like Maranda could ever present a threat to the indomitable Gestahlian Empire, but rebellions are built on the backs of each other. With every victory Doma sees, the fires of rebellion burn brighter in Maranda, until the day when one of the Empire’s tax collectors is met by a slew of angry villagers with rocks in hand and revolution in their eyes. 

The man barely makes it out of there with his life, and Maranda grows bolder yet. Rocks are traded for shields and spears and instead of a single, angry mob, the villagers organize. They start small, harassing Empire supply lines. Then they straight up strike one -- stealing horses and chocobos and precious materials. For some time, they experience near-unimaginable success. 

Then, two months after their first defiance, inhabitants of Maranda step outside of their cottages to see an odd procession march inland from the coast. Barded horses whinny and snort, strange machines clang and creak and billow steam, and crimson banners bearing the mark of the Gestahlian Empire flutter in the breeze. At the head of it all is a woman, much too young to be much of anything but clearly the one in command. 

At the edge of the village, the procession halts and the young woman breaks off from the rest. She rides her horse -- a creature of roughly the same build and colour as a bowlder -- to the cobbled, mostly open area that serves as a plaza. She does not dismount. 

To the rebels of Maranda, grown men and women proudly bearing the scars from half a dozen skirmishes with Empire patrols, she is just a girl. A stone-faced girl clad in finest Empire steel, but a girl nonetheless. 

“Citizens of Maranda,” she calls, voice surprisingly loud and commandeering for someone so young. “Emperor Gestahl, long may He reign, demands your immediate surrender. Capitulate now, or face the consequences.”

Silence has fallen over Maranda -- the forgotten village, remembered at last. Those who didn’t abandon their activity when the Empire’s procession first showed up have stopped to watch now, gathered in clumps near where the young woman sits atop her warhorse. The only sound is that of the banners fluttering and snapping the wind. Long moments pass before anyone speaks, the air charged with something like electricity. 

“Gestahl can fuck right off!” comes from within the gathering crowd. The young woman turns at the sound, eyes narrowed as she tries to find the source of the voice, but there are too many people there, too many unfamiliar faces looking at her with open malice. 

“Surrender,” the she calls again, “or there will be consequences.” 

“Go back to licking Gestahl’s boots, Empire scum.” A new voice sounds from within the crowd, joined by the cheers of several others. Something flies through the air and hits the ground with a sharp clatter. Maranda may not produce much of worth to the Empire, but there are plenty of easily loosened, hand-sized cobbles. 

Her horse has yet to do so much as slant an ear at the commotion, and the young woman herself doesn’t much more than flinch, then looks back up to the crowd. Her expression remains hard as mythril, but her voice is lower, tighter, as she says: “This is your last chance, citizens of Maranda. You have fought bravely. Surrender to the Empire now, and you will be treated fairly.”

For a moment, consideration seems to hang in the air. Girl or not, the woman in front of them represents the Emperor’s might. Not his self-proclaimed right to claim taxes, but his might to crush villages should he choose. The soldiers behind the girl are his soldiers, his troops that have helped conquer most if not all of the northern continent.

But the people of Maranda have faced Gestahl’s soldiers before and become drunk on their own success. As one, the entirety of Maranda make up their hearts and minds, and tear apart the silence with their voices. 

“You can shove your surrender up your arse, Empire bitch!”

“Fuck off back to Vector!”

“Glory to Maranda!” The last phrase becomes a chant, echoed back and forth, as the crowds begin to tighten around the young woman and her horse. 

She looks on for a heartbeat, eyes grim and mouth drawn into a thin line, then wheels her horse around and spurs it to a canter. The chanting of the villagers follow her the short way to the edge of the village, where her troops are waiting. 

As she reigns in her horse, one man hops down from his strange, steel mount, and greets her with a salute. “General Celes,” he says, drawing the attention of the others. The lot of them echo the greeting. “What are your orders?”

“Maranda has refused to surrender,” the young woman says. “Capture this village, in the name of Emperor Gestahl. Drive them out and crush all resistance.”

“Yes, ma’am!” comes from her force, followed by an obligatory, “All hail Emperor Gestahl! Long may He reign!” 

General Celes watches her soldiers advance on Maranda, carried on the backs of the Empire’s metal beasts, and feels nothing except pity for the villagers.


End file.
